


Collide

by AnnieAmazing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Sexual Content, Slight Drama, Songfic, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieAmazing/pseuds/AnnieAmazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow the first time their bodies collided and their breaths mingled had proved to have a greater impact on their lives than they'd first expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TSylvestris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TSylvestris/gifts).



> Based on the song 'Collide' by Howie Day. I didn't actually try to convert the lyrics into a story, I just wrote what I felt while listening to the song. I highly recommend listening to it while reading this.
> 
> Dedicated to my wonderful friend TSylvestrisA, because she is my inspiration and my anchor and a gorgeous beta.  
> Huge thanks to my lovely friend junejuly15 for making some great suggestions.

**Collide**

Somehow the first time their bodies collided and their breaths mingled had proved to have a greater impact on their lives than they'd first expected.

. . .

When John woke up, he took in his surroundings like any trained soldier would. It couldn't be too late after midnight. The room was dark, only the light of the street lamps outside and the moon lighting up the room; silent, except for the occasional automobile passing by down on the street and the calm, even breaths of the person next to him.

John's gaze followed the soft lines and sharp angles of his lover's face, his left forefinger reaching out and grazing the soft, pale skin of a cheek. He bent forward and gently touched his lips to one closed eyelid. As he pulled back and resumed watching the sleeping figure, the glistening moonlight caressing raw, white skin, making it shine in an unusually beautiful way, he felt a single tear drip from his eyes.

He was used to tears of fondness, they'd come every now and again when he looked at Sherlock's sleeping form. It had been four months now, and he wouldn't stop being amazed by the sensation that was his flatmate-gone-lover. He'd never seen anything so pure and beautiful in his life.

And even though Sherlock was all bones, angles and sharp edges, he still was so soft, so vulnerable. For the first two months, John had constantly been worried he'd break the fragile figure by just so much as touching or kissing him.

A happy sigh left his lips and he smiled as Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and gazed around in confusion. "John," he murmured, his soft baritone rough from sleep.

"It's okay, love, I'm here. Go back to sleep," was John's whispered answer and he reached out to put his palm on his lover's cheek, fingers combing through the hair right behind his ear.

Sherlock purred and closed his eyes again, moving closer to the radiating warmth and love and _home_ that was John, resting his head on the elder man's chest.

"Sleep now," John said, voice so soft it was almost inaudible, his lips moving against the top of Sherlock's head. "I love you," he added. There was no answer except for the calm, even breaths that came from the younger.

 . . .

_The dawn is breaking_  
_A light shining through_  
_You're barely waking_  
_And I'm tangled up in you_

. . .

Sometimes, Sherlock wouldn't let John near him. He would flinch at the merest touch, squirm under his gaze, and turn his back at him.

Outside, at the Yard, on crime scenes, at St Bart's lab, even at Angelo's he would treat John like they were barely acquaintances. It hurt to be pushed away like this, but John chose to suffer through it silently. He knew this was just how Sherlock was. He certainly did not understand it, but he wouldn't fight about it either.

One day - Lestrade had summoned them to a crime scene near Hyde Park - Sherlock would completely ignore him. It was so obvious that the D.I. took John aside and asked him about it, genuinely concerned. He pretended to not care about Sherlock's wicked schemes, told Greg that his friend just was like that. "You know him," he said with a shrug.

He heard Sally Donovan muttering something about trouble in paradise and rolled his eyes. What did _she_ know, anyway? Stupid bit- he didn't let himself finish that thought.

Going public was another case entirely. They hadn't taken that step yet, seven months into the game, but John certainly hoped they would, and soon. Because, even though he wouldn't admit it to himself or anyone else, he more and more felt like a pet to Sherlock. He didn't want to be his _'Dirty Little Secret'_ anymore.

He wanted the world to know Sherlock was his, and his alone. That the Consulting Detective was, in fact, spoken for. Even though no-one but Molly Hooper really attempted to ever flirt with Sherlock (he was a _freak_ after all), he wanted to show him off and tell everyone who cared and didn't that it was _him_ , John Watson, who managed to break the ice wall surrounding the heart of that glorious man and capture it.

But then again, did he?

  
_I'm open, you're closed_  
_Where I follow, you'll go_  
_I worry I won't see your face_  
_Light up again_  


Yes, he did indeed.

He had realised Sherlock loved him back with every part of him the exact moment they had reentered the flat that night.

It didn't take more than two glances until hands reached out, tugged at coats and took them off, pulled at shirts and ripped them open, hot mouths searching, pressing against each other, devouring hungrily.

Nimble violinist's fingers dug into John's shoulder blades. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hips, lifted him off his feet and onto the kitchen table. Their lovemaking was passionate, hard and fast.

John's name fell from Sherlock's lips, the rich baritone vibrating in the tiled room, oh-so-gloriously making John's heart swell.

Languid silence filled the flat after the last of deep, breathy moans had reverberated from the walls in the most intriguing way.

Whatever doubts had filled John's mind during the day, they certainly had vanished now, vaporised by hot fingers on clammy skin.

. . .

_Even the best fall down sometime_  
_Even the wrong words seem to rhyme_  
_Out of the doubt that fills my mind_  
_I somehow find_  
_You and I collide_

. . .

They'd been sitting across from each other in their armchairs, each of them engrossed in their own little tasks; Sherlock doing some kind of research on the Internet and John reading the paper.

"Thank you for the tea," Sherlock murmured out of the blue and took John's breath away in the process.

_Wha-... uh?_

John was unsure of what to make of this declaration. He _always_ made the sodding tea, and Sherlock _never_ thanked him for it. Such was their habit. What was different now? Was it supposed to have a deeper meaning to it?

He blinked. Shook his head. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from his (John's, actually) laptop and lifted it to meet John's piercing blue eyes. He smiled. "One would assume you did understand my words rather clearly, John, due to the fact your hearing is still perfectly intact. You know how much I detest repeating myself."

John's gaze narrowed, brows knit together. Sherlock sighed in response, but remained silent. He dropped his gaze, apparently unable to look the doctor in the eyes.

_Oh. OH! Yes, that._

John's breathing stopped once again and he dropped the newspaper, suddenly feeling weak. He felt his heart rate increase and a smile form on his lips. Then, "I love you, too, Sherlock."

And with those softly spoken words, Sherlock nodded and resumed his task on the laptop, a blush creeping up his neck. He focused on his research in such determination, he appeared to be thoroughly consumed by it. And John realised with a loving smile that it was just for the sake of trying to chase the distracting sentiment away and out of the genius' bright mind.

The incident was never spoken of again, yet it wouldn't let go of John's heart, mind and soul, wouldn't stop burning him with white-hot passion.

. . .

_I'm quiet, you know_  
You make a first impression  
_I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind_

_Even the best fall down sometime_  
_Even the stars refuse to shine_  
_Out of the back you fall in time_  
_I somehow find_  
_You and I collide_  
. . .

There was a force, a power, the one thing in this world that could shut down Sherlock Holmes' brilliant mind and reduce this glorious, beautiful creature to a sobbing, begging, shivering mess. And it was found _in him,_ John Watson.

Amazed and excited and so happy, he thought he may explode from pure joy, John found himself very much at the edge. The caress of Sherlock's words left him blissfully breathless.

He gulped and looked back into those demanding green eyes (had they not been grey just a moment before?) and opened his mouth to say something. But words failed him, his brain wouldn't let him think of a proper response.

Sherlock, however, seemed to understand, seemed to know. He'd absorbed John's every reaction. A smile decorated those perfect lips as they touched John's.

No words were needed, the answer was yes, would always be yes.

"I love you, John," the soft baritone echoed in his head. He'd said it, finally, after almost a year of being together, Sherlock had said those three (four) little words for the first time. And then, "Are you willing to belong with me for the rest of our lives, John? Through joy and sorrow and 'til death do us apart?"

 _Yes, God, yes,_ John thought blissfully and snaked his arms around his lover's naked body.

And how much he wanted that. He wanted everyone to see and know and _be aware_ the Consulting Detective was his, and his only. He wanted to be able to hold his hand in public, kiss him whenever he felt like it, and just linger a little too close without attracting questioning gazes. And he was finally going to get what he wanted, and even more than that.

Mrs Hudson had been the first to notice the plain silver ring on John's left hand and figure out its meaning. She even said something in the fashion of "Took you two long enough" and flashed a smile that was cross fondness and knowing. (Apparently, the walls weren't as thick as they'd thought.)

Their other friends and acquaintances took it equally well, most of them actually shrugged it off as something they'd expected. But mentioning the "We're actually engaged" part was still quite a shocker. So much so, that D.I. Greg Lestrade of all people actually fainted. ("My sincere congratulations. Mummy will be very pleased," Mycroft had said with a, for once, genuine smile on his lips. If it was for John and Sherlock or for the fact that the news would make Mother Holmes happy, neither of them knew.)

All the apparent _prevision_ of the people around them somehow took the edge and excitement of 'going public' with the news of an upcoming wedding away, but it was a great feeling regardless.

John felt like flying. Sherlock felt like being in the centre of a hurricane, with John as his anchor. They completely and utterly loved it. John especially loved the acceptance and the praises. Sherlock just loved that John was happy. (His John, he thought, for once at peace with himself and the world. _His John,_ who promised to be with him until the end of time. Sherlock's.)

It was the most gorgeous week of their life so far. Also the most sex-filled.

. . .

_Don't stop here_  
_I've lost my place_  
_I'm close behind_

. . .

It was dark when John awoke, breathing heavily. His fingers searched the spot next to him frantically, gripping nothing but silk, his eyes darted around the room, trying to adjust to the dim moonlight falling in through the window.

"Sherlock?" he asked into the darkness, his voice broken. He looked to the right to find his lover's spot empty and long since cooled.

Had he been dreaming? He swallowed thickly and shook his head.

Of course. He remembered it now. That one day nearly three years ago.

The rooftop, the call Sherlock had given him, the tears both of them shed. The plain black headstone in that graveyard. The miracle he prayed for every godforsaken day and night, the one that never came, would never come.

Yes, of course - Sherlock was dead. Because that's what people _do_. They die. And they don't resurrect just because one prayed and begged and hoped and cried and mourned.

John fell back into the silk-covered pillows and closed his eyes with a sigh, playing with the silver band he still wore on his left ring finger. Touching this last gift, this forever unfulfilled promise Sherlock had given him was somewhat soothing.

He sighed again and turned on his side, trying hard to fight and chase away the tears that even Sherlock's beautifully deep-dark-mysterious baritone voice in the back of his head couldn't keep at bay.

And that was when he heard it. The faint sound of a violin coming from the living room, caressing his ears, his heart, putting his body, mind and soul back in line. Like puzzle pieces being put together, the shattered remainders of his lonely, bleeding heart fit back together as if they'd never been apart.

Without actually thinking, John jumped to his feet and raced into the sitting room. He stopped dead in his tracks as he stared at the back of a familiar tall figure standing at the window, playing the violin, eliciting the sweetest tunes from it, extracting cries of love and hope and belonging and _home_ that took John's breath away.

The tune ended, and Sherlock put the violin down and turned around, his eyes cutting through the darkness.

"John. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered, effectively lifting the black and grey cloak of silence that surrounded them.

John's heart skipped a beat, only to pound against his chest rapidly right afterwards.

"Sher-" he managed to breathe, voice cracking, "is that - am I dreaming? Did I die and go to heaven?"

"Would you rather be?" the soft baritone responded, chuckling, and John shook his head.

The smile on Sherlock's lips spoke volumes as he crossed the room to envelope his lover in a tight embrace. "I've missed you, John, my John," he murmured into his ear and placed a chaste kiss on the lobe.

Knowing where they belonged, John's arms wound around the lanky and way too thin body entirely on their own accord, hands pressing against Sherlock's lower back, fingers clutching at the silky material of his shirt.

"Oh, God," he whispered, "you sodding great arsehole, I've missed you two times more."

And with that, he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of rain water and smoke and wood and spring that was Sherlock, bathing in the delight of having his one true love back in his life. Nothing else mattered and nothing ever would.

  
_Even the best fall down sometime_  
_Even the wrong words seem to rhyme_  
_Out of the doubt that fills your mind_  
_You finally find_  
_You and I collide_  
_You finally find_  
_You and I collide_  
_You finally find_  
_You and I collide_


End file.
